


Leap Before You Look

by Britpacker



Series: Leaps Of Faith [1]
Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 17:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8064958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Britpacker/pseuds/Britpacker
Summary: It's the Tucker way.  Trip takes a chance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).
> 
>  **Author's notes:** Unbeta'd, not mine... you know the drill. Set a few months after the events of 4.21 "Terra Prime" with mild spoilers troughout Seasons 3  & 4.  
> I hope to get this finished sometime soon, but if not.. blame a home Olympics!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shore leave. It's the perfect opportunity to get away and think. Isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual for me, sentences in italics = character's thoughts.

"Aw, fuck!"

His yelp was splintered by the crackle of dead wood from the last miserable patch of scrub clinging to the mountainside as it gave way beneath his sweaty hands. Commander Charles Tucker the Third sucked in a deep, calming breath, shuffled the loose gravel beneath his boots until it skittered away in a stony shower, then launched himself at the final precipitous ascent for a third time. "This better be worth it, T'Pol," he grunted, bent double in his search for a convenient finger-hold.

Three hours she'd said. His internal chronometer told Trip he'd been hiking almost five, and each time he wiped the sweat off his forehead the air that struck the damp skin got colder. Yes, he liked being at one with nature; and yes, he'd asked her advice in finding some solitude for this single night's vacation. 

He wondered if she hadn't experienced one of those rare twinges of emotion - vengefulness, maybe - when she directed him up to what the Kantar called the Place of Contemplation. 

And immediately applied a mental boot to his own ass for the unworthy thought. The look in her eyes had been almost compassionate when, jumpy as a prospective bridegroom, he had applied to her for help. Almost as if she understood his driving need to be alone - to make sense of the shithole his life had become in the last few years.

It wasn't, Tucker conceded, as if hers had been any more successful. 

Heaving himself another few meters up the bare, boulder-strewn incline to a ledge just wide enough for a human to stand on comfortably he turned to survey his surroundings. Instantly he knew why a concerned friend might send him here.

The whole rift valley spread below him, its crystalline waters shimmering with a myriad of subdued shades that merged, somehow, into a harmonious whole: steel, russet and turquoise from the mountains, mirroring the velvet swathes of red-brown forest on the lower slopes that gave way to blue-green scrub and eventually the gunmetal grey rock where he stood on the upper; mauves and dusky pinks from the mottled sky; and, shot through like a precious thread, the pearlescent gleam of an enormous half-risen moon. The raw beauty of it brought a grapefruit-sized lump into his tight throat.

If there was one place worth hiding to ponder the sheer crappiness of the universe in general, this was it. _Maybe Hoshi's right: the Vulcan database is worth keeping._

A well-worn track clung to the perilously narrow outcrop that snaked around the summit. Taking a moment to settle his basic overnight pack on his shoulder Tucker shuffled along it, keeping his back to the smooth wall of rock that rose a final few metres over his head to form a gleaming spear-point, careful not to glance down at the sheer cliff which dropped away bare millimetres beneath his feet. Reluctant to break the silence, Tucker kept his harrumph internal. _If it was easy to reach, half the quadrant would be queuing up to contemplate._

Around the western face the path widened enough for a few wiry sea-blue lichens to survive on either side of the walkway. Trip's breath jammed up at the back of his throat.

If anything the view around this side was even more jaw-dropping, with the flooded valley basin glimmering a dozen shades of blush, violet and blue between gracefully soaring peaks of platinum and steel. He stood on the only level-ish promontory anywhere in sight, speckled with moss and bleached yellow grasses and just broad enough to fit a one-roomed, low-roofed shack behind a pair of slab stone benches. _Best view in the galaxy. Probably._

The advertised accommodation didn't exactly look five-star, its planking worn and its roof heavily laden with aqua moss and emerald lichen, but it glowed from within with the promise of a guaranteed heat source that made the sweat on Tucker's brow feel blast-chilled after his strenuous climb. He hadn't come all this way for luxury; just quiet and space to get his mind together, and this place offered plenty enough of both.

He took a long stride forward then rocked back, sent light-headed by something far more potent than the clean mountain air. Shock gripped his limbs and froze the breath in his lungs.

On the nearest bench sat a familiar, forlorn figure: swamped by the vastness of nature, his shoulders hunched and face lifted to catch the first consoling kiss of the moon. 

_Malcolm._

A few deep breaths brought his lurching heart back under control and, suddenly tentative, Trip took another forward step. His friend's fine-drawn features were still, frozen in an expression of such utter wretchedness his own eyes began to tear up although somehow, self-controlled to the last, Reed was not crying. 

For a nanosecond he thought of turning around, running for some other hill, before terrible fascination merged with compassion to kill the idea stone-dead. He couldn't leave anyone alone so blue. Least of all could he leave his best friend.

Something twanged hard inside his chest. Once, he'd have called Johnny Archer that. And though he couldn't regret having Malcolm Reed to laugh and kick back with, he still missed the easy closeness that once existed between his Cap'n and himself.

A loose stone spat from beneath his boot as he rocked on the spot, the small sound echoing like the boom of an ancient cannon through the silence. Reed didn't quiver.

Even more than the open distress on the younger man's face, that made panic claw Trip's throat. 

Preternaturally wary, Malcolm Reed wouldn't have missed a mouse sneaking through a sandpit if he wasn't neck-deep in despair. At this altitude, in this cathedral hush, the probability of his not hearing the clattering approach of an unsubtle engineer was unthinkable. 

For several seconds he vacillated, considering his next move. Startling Enterprise's Armoury Officer was usually a fast-track to quality time in Sickbay, and especially with Phlox in hibernation that wasn't a prospect Tucker relished. Still, if Malcolm was so sunk in depression he hadn't detected an open approach there wasn't much choice but to risk it.

A sigh rippled Reed's slender frame, and even in profile Trip could see the thin lips pucker against its escape. _It's okay, Mal. You don't have to hold it in. Not up here. Sonofabitch! How long has he been hiding this pain from me?_

His own melancholy ceased to matter: what was it anyway, compared with the all-consuming misery affecting the man he - secretly, hopelessly, but sincerely all the same - adored?

Discomfort seeped through him, contracting every muscle. The man he was spying on, in whose anguish he wallowed uninvited. Clasping his hands behind his back Trip took another long stride forward, keeping his voice low and level as he addressed the oblivious Englishman.

"Evenin' Malcolm. Guess I wasn't the only one planning t' play hermit this vacation."

It broke his heart to see that handsome face twist into an approximation of the armoury officer's cool, duty mask. "Commander!" Reed exclaimed, unusually clumsy in getting to his feet. Tucker wagged a finger.

"Uh-uh buddy, we're off duty, remember?" he teased. The lieutenant's sharp features creaked into a pained copy of the famous half-smile. 

"Sorry - instinctive reaction." The taut set of the lips softened. "Charles."

"Hey!" The Southerner's leaden limbs relaxed and he swayed forward, feigning a swipe at the Englishman. The fine lines around his eyes smoothing, Malcolm pretended to cower behind raised arms. "I'm sorry, Mal - if I'd know you were coming up here to vegetate, I'd've found myself a cave somewhere..."

"You couldn't have known." As if the burst of mischief had drained him Reed subsided back to his bench, hands dangling limp between his thighs. With a show of willpower he hadn't known he possessed Trip managed to keep his eyes above waist level while moving up to stand beside the smaller man. "And you can sit down if you like. I promise to keep my hands to myself."

 _Don't fight it on my account_. The words were on the tip of his tongue before Trip could choke them back, bitter as wormwood. "I don't mind heading back down... apparently the first person gets rights of ownership..."

"If there's anyone I can cope with being stranded in the middle of nowhere with, it's got to be you, hasn't it? Anyway, it'll be dark soon, and I'm not having your broken neck on my conscience because you've lost your footing on that blasted scree." Clearly aware his friend's resistance was weakening Reed shuffled along the bench, giving it a peremptory tap. "So: sit down, shut up and enjoy the view."

"Like you were?" Tucker winced from the overt challenge, but withdrawing it would've made things worse, so he met his friend's hostile look and pressed on. "You looked like a kid whose pet puppy's just been fished outta the lake, Mal."

"If I'd ever been allowed a pet I suppose that kind of incident might've started my bloody aquaphobia," Reed replied sourly, diverting his gaze to the riot of coloured water shimmering across the valley floor. "Sorry. I'm not exactly good company at the moment."

"Likewise." Satisfied to receive a grunt in reply Tucker let his shoulders slump, his gaze wandering aimlessly over the magnificent vista, barely aware of the deepening of the sky's colour that signalled night's approach. Enveloped in isolation's total hush he was acutely aware of his neighbour's shallow breathing, measuring his own to match while slowly getting weighed down by a sickly sense of loneliness that sat like a sticky gloop around his organs. "Still, it's a helluva place to be miserable."

"Looking on the bright side, Mistah Tuckah?"

"Just makin' nice, Mister Reed." The soft harrumph brought a sad smile to his full lips. "Life's shit sometimes, isn't it?"

"I defer to your greater eloquence, Sir. Couldn't have put it better myself."

They sat in silence for some minutes, Reed gazing across the valley as the pastel sky deepened and the heavy moon sank to her rest seemingly impaled between two needlepoint peaks directly facing their refuge. He might never have been anywhere more tranquilly magnificent, but Tucker couldn't focus on the scenery. All his attention was fixed on the man at his side.

Some of the pinched tension had smoothed from Malcolm's face but he still held himself taut, lips falling victim to the smallest of intermittent quivers. As if the fire of grief that had driven him to this remote place had been tamped down to a few smouldering embers, Trip mused, faintly dismayed by the poetic tendencies his unsuspecting friend inspired in him. He couldn't blame himself, though: in the fading light, melancholy and still, Malcolm Reed had never been more fragile - or more beautiful.

It felt like an eternity before the Englishman stirred, arching his spine through a long, slow stretch. Trip could almost hear the tight muscles ping with relief all the way down that elegant back. "It's nice here. Peaceful."

"Guess that's kind of the idea." Automatically they were murmuring, as if to break the hush were sacrilege. He watched enraptured as the near corner of Malcolm's mouth turned up.

"I'm half-expecting a couple of Romulans to burst out of the shelter; or those scrubby little bushes down there to mutate into Suliban fighters," he replied drily. "It seems like forever since I wasn't in imminent danger of disembowelment, or worse."

"It's been a rough few years." The humorous words had a hard edge Trip didn't like, something worlds away from the Brit's usually smooth, sardonic delivery. Malcolm's head jerked in agreement.

"When I read about this place, I couldn't resist," he said, compelled to explain himself to this one being as he would to no other. "I hadn't realised how desperately I needed somewhere to just... sit and put my head back together. I'm not _me_ any more, if that makes sense. I'm just a title and a uniform, blundering along from one crisis to another without time to stop and _be_."

"I'm with ya, buddy." Listening to that quiet, slightly smoky voice enunciating the exact urge that had driven him sent a chill down Tucker's spine. "I know we've gotten back to that _peaceful exploration_ shit since the refit, but it's not the way I thought it'd be, you know?"

"Happy smiley aliens all bouncing with joy at the prospect of meeting the human race?" Reed suggested, long lashes dipped to hide the mischief that lanced through his eyes. "It's never been like that: even the Captain admits it now."

"Almost five years too late, huh?" Malcolm had never expected humanity to be welcomed with open arms. Right from day one he'd expected the reception committees to be carrying bombs and bullets. At least, Trip reflected, one of the senior staff hadn't been blinded by the shattering of his rose-tinted glasses the first time they'd actually encountered an unknown race.

Well-cut pink lips disappeared in a tight frown that puckered the broad brow beneath a single disobedient lock of dark hair. "I couldn't possibly comment. Commander."

"Malcolm Reed, you use my rank one more time, I'll toss you over the goddamn cliff, you got that?" He was, Tucker realised, laughing. They both were, and it felt weird. Good, but weird.

How long had it been since he had really laughed? Trip couldn't remember, and covertly studying the Englishman's tired features he suspected Malcolm might feel the same. "Sorry," Reed said, sounding as unapologetic as humanly possible. "But honestly, I don't think even the most pessimistic of us - that's me, obviously - expected the galactic response to human nosiness to be quite so antagonistic. Even now we've supposedly got allies..."

"Did you miss the whole treaty conference or something? Hell, thanks to us even the Vulcans and the Andorians are playing nice!"

"And the Tellarites have a whole alliance of planets to insult. I do remember the interminable speeches, unfortunately." Absently Reed pushed the stray curl of hair off his forehead, allowing his shoulders to sag. "Didn't all go quite to plan, did it?"

"No." That was a subject he didn't want to consider, so Trip grasped at another, vaguely connected. "Did you not take leave after, like everybody else? Hell, I went home, told Mom an' Dad everything then felt like shit for burdening them. Maybe if I'd found myself a hole to hide in I'd have gotten this outta my system."

"My bolt-hole was the armoury." It wasn't easy to tell in the fast-fading light, but he though Malcolm blanched. "And when I got there it was full of station personnel getting under my feet and fiddling about with things they'd only ever seen in diagrams. If I'd been left alone to throw a few things..."

"Then, of course, when I did go home, I turned up at Maddie's the day after she'd caught her fiancé _in flagrante_ with an old school friend... I'd only intended staying one night but she was awfully cut up, so I couldn't leave her. Spent a fortnight after wringing the damp out of my sweaters."

"Nice." Others might fall for the affected callousness, but they didn't know Malcolm Reed the way he did. "And then you came back to find a drunken hick outside your door wailing about T'Pol going home to cut that fuckin' bond. I didn't mean to dump all my shit on you, Malcolm. I did apologise, didn't I?"

"At three in the morning while I was dragging your inebriated carcass back to your cabin, yes; but it's all right." For the first time storm-grey eyes met cloudy blue direct, and what he saw in them turned Tucker's heart through a pair of monumental backflips. "I've seen the effect of bottling things up on your temper once, and I'd rather not go there again. I - I'm glad I could help."

As his friend tried to swallow the baseball lodged in his windpipe, Reed dragged a hand back through his ruffled hair. "Although not much, obviously."

Tucker gaped at him, and those mesmerising silver eyes dropped. "I assume we both came here with the same intention, Commander: to lick our wounds."

"That's not what I called it to T'Pol, but - I guess so." Tucker's shoulders circled through a massive shrug. "Was it helping, before I arrived?"

"No."

"But it's gotta be done before we can move on, right?"

"I suppose so."

Though his eyes were filed with majestic vistas all Tucker saw through them was a fractured movie reel of faces from the past few years - Lizzie and Elizabeth; T'Pol; Jon Archer's all twisted with rage and pain; his mother's blotched and swollen with tears shed his last time home, when he'd broken down and confessed everything about her granddaughter's short, unhappy life. It wasn't the alien nutjobs trying to turn his hide into a wallhanging that got him - even Commander Optimistic had expected some fights in a brand new playground. 

What he hadn't foreseen was having his head screwed around by old friends and new enemies alike. 

Tears stung the back of his eyes and he bit so hard into his bottom lip he tasted the sudden, copper spurt of blood. "I'm sorry, Malcolm," he whispered, unsure what he was apologising for; only knowing that he had to, right now, to this man. "I'm just so fucking _sorry_ about everything."

"I know." The words were barely a whisper. As slowly as if it weighed the same as the average gas giant, Reed heaved up his head and met his best friend's heartbroken stare with tear-cloudy resolution. "So am I. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair."

"No." _So beautiful_ , Tucker thought, snared in that intense, utterly compassionate gaze. Compelled by an irresistible external force he dipped his head and oh, so slowly, pressed his mouth to the younger man's.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's done it now and there's no going back. What does forward mean for Trip and Malcolm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> London 2012 is playing havoc with my writing plans! The boys get busy in this part; there'll be some talking to do sometime (hopefully) soon.

The universe slowed down. He was acutely conscious of the softness, the unexpected pliancy of those thin, firm-looking lips against his own; of the faintest whisper of sweet, chocolate-tinged breath as the paralysis of shock released its grip on Reed. Eyes drifting shut Trip succumbed to the wonder of the moment, perfectly at peace for the first time in forever.

It couldn't last. Realisation came crawling up out of his boots and he drew back, faintly surprised he wasn't already flat on his ass with a pair of highly-trained hands wrapped around his collar. His vision swam hazily for a moment, the taste of those luscious lips still tingling at the corner of his mouth. "Malcolm? Are you mad at me?"

The rusty question seemed to startle the smaller man out of a trance. "I've never kissed a man before," he murmured, the tip of his tongue flicking out. 

Trip could have sworn he felt its feather touch inside his pants. "You're not gonna freak out, are you?" he ventured.

"Hm? Oh, no." The pleasant fog around him refused to dissipate completely even in the face of Charles Tucker III's fidgety fright. Oblivious to the luminous smile that lit his face, Malcolm inched closer. "I - if you don't mind, I think I'd rather like to do it again."

The last word was muffled by the cavern of Tucker's mouth engulfing his, at once ardent and shatteringly tender. He registered the unfamiliar roughness of the skin around that wonderful mouth, the satisfying friction of a day's stubble growth, and unbidden a hand lifted out of his lap to explore further. 

The unexpected contact fizzed through Trip's face and deep into his brain. Careful not to move too fast he disengaged their lip-lock, letting his cheek rest on Reed's cupping palm. "Got a verdict yet?" he breathed.

This time the tongue moved slower around a full circuit of plumped-up lips, as if Malcolm was savouring every last molecule of their contact. "Different," the Englishman conceded, keeping the heel of his hand against his friend's strong jaw. The muscles flexed beneath it as Tucker risked a tentative smile.

"Good different or bad different?"

The risk paid off in spectacular style. Malcolm bobbed up to initiate a quick kiss of his own. "Definitely not the latter," he murmured, subsiding back to the bench. "But why..."

A thousand answers rushed toward his tongue but resolutely Trip shoved them back. This mattered too much for glibness; he dare not risk the sure-fire family talent for opening his mouth and planting both boots in sideways. "Because you're you, Malcolm. And because - well, if you're not gonna deck me for it, because I've wanted to for a long, long time. I just never thought you'd go for it, being straight like you are."

"Am I?"

The theme from an ancient TV series his grandfather used to make him watch endlessly - _The Twilight Zone_ , he thought it was called - played through Trip's head. "But you just said..."

"That I'd never kissed a man," Reed repeated, slow and level as if he was addressing an especially dim-witted cadet. "I never said I hadn't thought of it, did I?"

For once Trip didn't mind the patronising tone, because he was feeling slower than a sloth after a Tucker-style Christmas meal. "I've always suspected I might be bi," Malcolm mused. "I've just never been called on it. You?"

"I've gone with a guy or two." Mostly for sex, Trip reflected, and never involving the depth of emotion that suffused him as he studied this particular man. "You're not gonna flip out?"

Reed's dark head moved through a slight shake. "I don't think so. Perhaps you should kiss me again and find out."

By Malcolm's standards that was staggeringly tactless and from his blush Trip figured he knew it. "Hell, we live for kicks, don't we?" he muttered, right before claiming that glorious mouth again.

Time lost all meaning. Sliding a hand up the younger man's back Tucker cupped the dark head, fingers sliding easily through the silky sable hair. A faint mew rippled against the back of his throat as Reed's tongue touched his own. Heat began to gather, a pleasant stirring that pooled the blood in his loins.

"Malcolm." The name reverberated around their mouths, almost a prayer. The body in his arms shifted and it took a moment for Tucker to realise it was moving closer, pressing itself against his. Coming up for air cost a nanosecond before their lips were drawn back together, more assured this time, tongues teasing, tasting every crevice of the other's mouth. His arousal was growing, a firm pressure against his fly, but Trip felt no urgency. He wanted to sit here holding this man, just mapping that wonderful, succulent mouth, forever.

Malcolm's hands linked at his nape, the long fingers stroking over sensitive skin and through the soft furze of short hair. A small sound of contentment rolled at the back of the Englishman's throat. 

Moving slowly so as not to break the skein of magic working around them Tucker drew back, catching Malcolm's chin between his fingertips. "Getting cold?" he purred, his other hand sliding along the brunet's exposed forearm. The shiver he elicited went right down to Reed's toes.

"Warm me up, then," he challenged. The slow, slack smile that unfurled over the blond's handsome face alone did that admirably even before Trip pulled him up hard against his chest and set about kissing the wits out of him. 

Nimble fingers worked over his back and shoulders, probing the muscles and firing pulses of pleasure from the most unexpected areas. Malcolm could feel his body sliding out of his control, surrendering itself wholly to his friend's manipulation. 

Trip was floating; flying. His whole being was concentrated on the glorious pressure in his groin, the gooey, sensual ache blooming out of his core. Barely feeling the ground beneath his boots he stood, dragging the Englishman's unresisting weight with him. "Time to go in, Malcolm."

Reed stiffened, his head jerking back and even through his ecstatic haze Tucker registered the mortified expression that seized that sharp-angled face. "If you wish, Commander," he rapped out, almost wrenching himself free. Trip tightened his grip, sick with comprehension's slam.

"I don't wanna stop, Mal," he murmured, tearing up again at the chase of disbelief, hope and wonder through those unwittingly expressive grey orbs. "But there's a big ol' bed inside, and a heater of some kind. Unless I'm going too far..."

He had no time to end the sentence before Reed had shuffled them both back through the open door, guiding Tucker's head down beneath the low crossbeam. "Please don't stop," was whispered against his chin before their mouths met again. How they made it to the wide, low bunk heaped with thick woollen covers, Trip would never recall.

Nor care. In a tangle of limbs the two men landed on a springy mattress that sighed beneath their weight, their glowing faces barely a breath apart. Tucker brought up a finger, scarcely daring to brush it along the chiselled line of a cheekbone. "You're sure you want this, Malcolm?"

Passion-cloudy gazes locked. "I'm only just realising how long I've been wanting this," the lieutenant murmured, mimicking the tender gesture. Trip shifted slightly, dropping his other hand into the gap between their bodies and applying the smallest degree of pressure. Malcolm's breath caught. "And that!" he gasped.

Flimsy cotton bunched and smoothed beneath the Southerner's flat palm and he watched enthralled as long dark lashes fluttered over hazy eyes. When sharp white teeth appeared to nip a luscious bottom lip it was all Trip could do to stifle his moan.

"May I," Malcolm paused, gulped and tried again. "Can I touch you?"

Disbelief slowed his reactions but the engineer realised he'd managed to nod when a slim hand came to rest cautiously atop his tumescent cock. "Oh!"

Through a silvery mist of pleasure Tucker could still savour the look of wonder that crossed his companion's angular features, melting into a delighted smile as the flesh beneath his hand twitched. "I've never touched another man's," Reed marvelled, inbred courtesy failing in his eagerness to discover more. Trip's fly was half down before he stopped short, shielding his sheepishness with a stab at nonchalance that would have fooled almost anybody else. "You don't mind, of course?"

The tip of an index finger wormed into Tucker's briefs. Any hope of coherence was lost.

"Uuuhh!"

"I'll take that as a no." Rich as sweetened syrup Malcolm's voice seeped through his skin, merging with an increasingly confident touch. Guided by his lover's caresses Trip squirmed out of his unwanted lower garments, dimly aware his surroundings were greying out around the gleeful expression on the younger man's face. "Like that?"

"Oh, yeah." Held in a firm grip, arching through the tight ring of Malcolm's fist, Trip gave up fighting. Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, he succumbed to the miraculous sensations swirling through him and came in long, wet spurts all over the Englishman's busy hand.

Feeling returned before conscious cogitation, allowing him to drift languidly along under the lightest of strokes until he was ready to open his hazy eyes and smile at the man rubbing his solid chest with open fascination. "Lil' different from what you're used to?" somebody slurred.

"Mmm, nice though." Malcolm's usually precise accent sounded strained, and when he stretched Trip's foggy brain churned out a reason why. 

"That's gotta hurt, Mal," he purred, letting his thigh brush the rock-solid protrusion rearing against the restraint of thin tan cotton. A low mew escaped his partner and a swirl of his chest hair was twisted in convulsive grip. "Lemme deal with it."

"Oh, please." If every bone in his perfect body had chosen that moment to melt Malcolm couldn't have flopped any more completely, hips already lifted to help clumsy hands get him out of his clothes. "I won't last... I need..."

"Don't fight it." He would, Tucker knew. Unconditional surrender was anathema to Malcolm Reed, however appealing the terms. Bypassing the temptation of that rising phallus Trip dove down to cup his man's soft balls, rolling the velvety weight in his hands and feeling himself grin when the brunet bit down his answering moan. "It's alright, there's only us. Let me hear you, Malcolm. Let me know what's good for you."

That damn furrow between the eyebrows that got him every time appeared as Reed's features drew into a concentrated frown. "That's - oh, just there," he growled, finding control enough for coherence even while his body gave in to the sensations Trip evoked. The blond's eyebrows shot up.

"Right here?" he queried, pressing his thumb into the same spot on Malcolm's underside, just at the base of the thick, pulsing vein. Like a marionette with a broken string, his lover jerked violently. "There," Tucker confirmed, ridiculously pleased with himself.

Not, he guessed, as pleased as Malcolm was with him while he played the Englishman's pulsing flesh like a maestro, revelling in the heat beneath his hand. He couldn't drag his eyes away from the lieutenant's flushed face, beads of sweat glistening in the creases of his brow where it tightened and relaxed in a sensual snarl of bliss. Wanton and out of control, Malcolm Reed was all he had fantasised about and more, and with his touch Trip sought to let him know it. "C'mon, Malcolm," he begged, conscious of his own rapidly reviving ardour. "Let go."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some talking to be done, but can Malcolm keep focussed long enough?

The sound of his name bursting from those passion-swelled lips as Reed climaxed was the sweetest he had ever heard. Tucker stroked him through its height, gentling his caresses to ease his man down the other side, soft, silly cooing sounds escaping his puckered lips while moisture stung the backs of his eyes. "That was lovely," Malcolm mumbled sleepily, instinct guiding him toward his partner's warmth. The pressure in his balls receded in time with the softening inside Trip's chest.

"That's the idea, Lieutenant," he whispered through Reed's damp dark hair. His skin was warmed by the Englishman's snort.

"Funny time to turn formal."

"Gotta do things backwards, darlin'." The endearment was out before he could stop it, but the only reaction was a minimal sigh that barely ruffled his chest rug. "'s the Tucker way."

"I think I like the _Tucker way_." He should've expected Malcolm to be the kind of guy who came around fast, Trip reflected, thankful for an oversight that left him no time to start panicking. He took a deep breath, already braced for trouble when he detected the skilful fingers he'd admired so many times playing over a cold console performing the same tricks on his much more receptive butt cheek. "I never guessed... if I'd known it could be like that I'd have shoved you up against the bulkhead the first time you told me to _"Keep yer shirt on, lew-tennantâ€_ in spacedock!"

Surprise cut the few diplomatic failsafes he possessed and caused an uncensored reply to burst from the depths of Trip's soul. "Hell, even while I said it I was wishing you'd get it off instead!"

Eyes of mingled silver and smoke gleamed, their mesmerising shift between the two enough to distract Trip from any embarrassment in the admission. "I fancied you from the off, you know," Malcolm observed, smile widening at the frank amazement that became his friend so well. "In fact it's being around you for the last few years that's fully convinced me I really _am_ bi, not just a bit _easily swayed_. I don't suppose you'd fuck me, would you?"

So subtle his attraction had been invisible, and yet so shockingly direct. It was the contradictions in that mercurial stoic that had captivated Trip Tucker and held him fast through all the traumas of the last few years. "You really want that?" he croaked. Malcolm's head wagged hard enough to shake loose.

"I've wanted it for ages, but I never thought it was a goer," he confided, snuggling in closer in the vain hope of hiding his awkwardness. "After all, you had all those alien birds falling at your feet, and then there was T'Pol..."

"Umm, technically I think you'll find she's an _alien bird_ too."

"You know what I mean." Nibbling his swollen lower lip, eyes dipped, the sensual, adventurous man Tucker had just made love to was subsumed by a nervous boy. "It's only a couple of months ago you were blubbering all over my favourite shirt because she'd buggered off to sever some kind of psychic bond. I thought..."

"I was heartbroken because the love of my life was untrue?" Self-analysis wasn't a Tucker trademark, but in the last few weeks Trip hadn't had much choice but to try. "I never loved her; she never loved me."

"You had half the crew working on a Human-Vulcan wedding format!"

The glorious body against his twitched. "That bad?" Trip asked, already fairly sure he didn't want to know. Malcolm grimaced.

"Torture worse than dear old Silik could ever conceive of," he confessed, then looked adorably shocked by his own frankness. "I mean - oh, fuck it! You and she obviously had unfinished business when you rejoined Enterprise, and then when you turned up at my door wailing drunkenly about the bond..."

"Neither of us wanted it, Mal." A portion of the grief he'd seen on those chiselled features, Tucker realised, conscious of the universe lurching around him, was his fault. "Hell, we didn't want each other - not really. I was vulnerable, she was screwed-up... we all were."

"I suppose so." Mitigating circumstances. While part of him yearned for them, the saner side of Reed's soul screamed against reliving those desperate days. Callused palms framed his face, forcing him to meet his friend's drownable ocean eyes.

"Most of the time it was there I didn't even _know_ about the bond," the engineer pointed out, deliberately holding a pragmatic tone. "I just knew I was - drawn to her somehow. Sonofabitch, what kind of mess was I? Wanting you, cursing her, _needing_ her somehow and knowin' it was all wrong... then, soon as she was out of my head, I felt... lost. Lonely. Empty."

His despairing shrug made the bed sigh beneath and around them. "Underneath it all though, I never lost those feelings for you, Malcolm Reed. I won't blame you if you find that kinda weird, but it's the truth, and I'll do whatever it takes to prove it."

Throughout his impassioned speech the smaller man had watched with the same unnervingly steady stare he fixed on aliens of doubtful provenance. "So: _will_ you fuck me?" he asked again. Trip found himself wondering which of them was the more surprised by the simple request.

The urge to pinch himself - or worse - was almost overpowering but, figuring this wasn't a moment for displaying symptoms of insanity, Tucker resisted. "Someday soon, if you still want it," he managed, stilling the slighter man's withdrawal with the lift of a finger. "But I won't call it _fucking_ : I'm gonna make love to you, Malcolm, if you'll let me."

Reed's throat convulsed. It took three attempts for his answer to leak out. "Yes, please. But why not..."

"We've got a mountain to climb down in the morning, and it won't matter how slow we go, the first time's gonna leave you sore." 

"Oh." Whether Malcolm was more startled by the comment or the consideration behind it Trip couldn't tell. "But sometime soon..."

"Sometime when we've got the next day off," Tucker affirmed hoarsely. "When I've got time to take it slow, and you've got time to start walkin' right before facing the rest of the crew."

"I've always rather wondered how it all _fits in_." A shadow of Lieutenant Reed's professional curiosity ghosted across the armoury officer's face while one hand wandered south, drawn inexorably to the object that dominated his thoughts. Trip whimpered, shivers running his semi-tumescent length to puddle in his balls. "Have you ever been fucked, Trip?"

"You talkin' figuratively or literally here?"

"The former's rather a given on this cruise." His grin freezing, Malcolm peered up into the engineer's intent face, then down to his wayward hand. "Oh! Am I by any chance _turning you on_ , Commander?"

"Maybe." 

"Have to try harder then, won't I?"

Flirtatious. Trip hadn't realised their solemn British officer knew how to be, but he was fast discovering how little he knew, even now about Malcolm Reed. "Be mah guest," he sighed, letting his eyelids droop. A sexy chuckle rippled over his ear. 

"Not until you've answered the question, Mistah Tuckah."

_Question. Question. Oh,_ that _question_.

"Yeah, but it's been a while."

The mattress squeaked beneath them as Malcolm moved, pushing himself up from the hip to frown down at the blond's pleasure-slackened features. "We're not going to have a day off for weeks, you know," he observed, brows beginning that subtle drawing together that was recognised all over Enterprise as A Bad Sign. "Not having won the shore leave lottery again."

"'s okay." His limbs felt weird - disconnected from his brain - but no matter; Trip's hand seized the initiative and rose to brush the armoury officer's cheek. "I got plenty of ideas to keep us busy 'til Johnny gives us a break, darlin'.2

Both brows shot up. "Really?"

He thought himself so damn controlled, Tucker mused, forcing his mind off the tightness of tears building behind the ribcage. Yet one little word, so full of hope and fear, could betray him. "Really. You've got a lot to learn about man-love, Mister Reed."

"I suppose I could find the time, if you're willing to teach me."

It was such a Malcolm way - roundabout and eminently deniable - of asking a straight question that he couldn't give a flippant response. Bringing up his other hand to frame those beloved features, Trip looked him dead in the eye and spoke with all the emotion that swelled up his heart. "I've got all the time in the universe for you, Mal. Never doubt that."

Equally oblique, his promise was translated in a microsecond if the joy that flooded Reed's face was any guide. "I don't suppose you'd be interested in another lesson around now?" the lieutenant murmured, both hands getting busy on the magnificent form against his. Trip laughed, the happiness bubbling up from his belly breaking loose as he rolled, trapping his friend beneath him. 

"Ah think ah can manage that," he growled, delighted by his lover's whimper at the exact aligning of their cocks. Slow and steady he began to move, focussing his attention on the rapid movement of hands against his back, landing random as a flock of starlings on sweat-slick skin. There was no resistance this time - no panicked struggle against decorum's gradual slide. Malcolm writhed beneath him, small mewling sounds bleeding through his concentrated frown, ever-changing eyes storm-dark with rising delight. Utterly engrossed in his delectable lover's cresting pleasure Trip barely noticed his own until it crashed around him, leaving him to melt into the other man's heat until he neither knew nor cared where he ended and the other began. 

He only knew there had never been a better way to slide into a deep and - unusually - dreamless sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after the most unexpected night before. Malcolm does some musing.

I don't know what's roused me: probably nothing more than the colours streaming through our panoramic window, turning it into stained glass and dappling my face with a glorious jumble of scarlet, amber and gold. It's like staring into the magnificent windows of Westminster Abbey or Canterbury Cathedral at midsummer, the different colours shifting over my skin with my every cautious move. The Vulcan database did say daybreak on Kantar is reputed the galaxy's greatest wonder.

I doubt the Science Directorate would care for it, but I've got to qualify that assertion. Lying next to me, almost cradling my body in the lee of his, is an even more spectacular sight.

That glorious body shimmers in the morning light; ruby warmth touches lips that even in sleep are turned up into a small, almost smug smile. Of its own volition my hand ghosts over his broad, hairy chest, every individual strand afire with gold and bronze. Everything about him - the hard muscles, strong, male lines, the flat, toned planes of belly and chest - is so different from all I've ever known that I'm mesmerised. I don't even have to touch; just hovering my hand above him I can feel the warmth, the life force of his even breathing, reverberating through my palm. 

Very cautiously I shift onto my hip, holding the thin silky sheet clear of our bodies lest its flutter against his skin disturb him. There's so much to see; I want to savour every tiny perfection in this ethereal light, worship it the way he deserves. I never dreamed anything could be like this.

Last night was a revelation. No one has ever touched me with such reverence. I certainly can't recall any woman showing the tenderness I had of this noisy, tactless, extrovert man. How could I have passed my thirty-second year without _knowing_? We've done nothing but stroke and rub each other, and yet... the best het sex of my life didn't shatter the universe that way.

We've rubbed each other up the wrong way often enough in the last four and a half years. Christ, if I'd known we could do it like _that_ , I'd have shoved him up against the nearest bulkhead and snogged him silly at the first casual _"Keep yer shirt on"_ he tossed my way!

There are still issues; I haven't lost all my common sense in a single night. This whole T'Pol thing is going to take time, for me at least, to rationalise. I've spent too long mulling over whatever they were to be satisfied with a two-minute explanation, however plausible and however earnestly expressed. But I trust Trip. I really do, and if that means accepting that she is in the past - I'll manage. 

I daresay I'll need plenty of reassurance for a while. If it comes in the form I experienced last night, I think oh, fifty years might cover it. God, he's amazing!

I'm so lost in the wonder of it all I don't realise he's awake until the tips of his fingers touch my cheek, lingering on the prominent ridge of bone. He couldn't stop touching it last night, either. I think it may be a fetish, but it's rather a sweet one, and I don't think I'm going to mind him stroking my face - in private, of course. "Mornin', Handsome."

Hopefully the reflected light will cover the blush I can feel racing right out of my toes, keeping pace with the warmth of emotion that washes through me. I don't need to ask or doubt. This wasn't a fling for him - Trip Tucker's not that kind of man, he wouldn't use a friend like that. There's such emotion in his wide, sleep-hazy blue eyes, a serenity I've not seen there in far too long. Perhaps for the first time in all the years we've known each other I'm aware that he is utterly happy. Completely at peace.

What's more - so am I.


End file.
